‘I think you should be kind and ask her about herself and her family. Thank her for her letters and tell her that she was a great comfort to you, giving you news of home. I’m sure she knows that the disparity in age, religion and class makes anything more than a friendship impossible.’ Kitty was only too familiar with those obstacles herself.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said with relief. ‘I’ll go now and get it over with. I hope I haven’t led her on too much.’
‘You were fighting a war,’ said Kitty. ‘I think you can be forgiven if you have.’
It was late afternoon when JP rode down the path to the house by the sea. The sun was low in a pale blue sky, the ocean calm and serene beneath wheeling gulls. He dismounted outside the white cottage and knocked on the door. A moment later Mrs O’Leary appeared. She smiled warmly when she saw him, but knowing nothing about his correspondence with her daughter, she assumed his visit had something to do with her husband. ‘I’m afraid Mr O’Leary isn’t here,’ she said. ‘Is it urgent?’
‘No, actually . . .’ and he hesitated because he didn’t know how to ask for her daughter without appearing forward or inappropriate.
‘I’m glad to see that you are safe,’ she said. ‘Your family must be very happy to have you home.’
‘They are, very happy. And I’m happy to be home too.’
‘Shall I tell my husband that you called? He’s so busy these days. It seems that everyone has an animal that needs seeing to.’
‘No need. Is Alana at home?’
Believing he had only asked about her daughter out of politeness, Emer smiled and thanked him. ‘How kind you are to ask after Alana. I won’t ever forget the day you rescued her and brought her home.’
‘It was nothing,’ he replied.
‘Not to you but it was to us. It was very gallant of you. I will tell her you mentioned her. She’s out walking Piglet.’
He laughed for he had read about Piglet in her letters. ‘What a funny name for a dog,’ he commented.
‘That’s Alana.’ She gave a gentle laugh. ‘I’ll tell her you asked after her. She’ll be pleased.’
He nodded and said goodbye, mounting his horse and waving as he made his way back up the path. He wondered whether he’d have to make another attempt or whether the fact that he had passed by and left a message with her mother would suffice. However, when he reached the top of the cliff he saw a small figure in the distance, walking in his direction. Close by, running in the long grasses, was a dog. He knew immediately that the figure was Alana, but it was too late to canter off without appearing rude. He had no alternative but to meet her.
Nothing could have prepared JP for the sight of Alana O’Leary. He barely remembered the girl he had rescued from the hills; however, the person now approaching was no longer that girl, but a young woman of almost seventeen – and a beautiful young woman at that. She walked towards him confidently with a light, buoyant gait and a carefree swinging of her arms and he could see that she was smiling. Her long fair hair was swept off her face and tied into a ponytail, revealing a slender neck and a flash of collarbone where her white shirt was unbuttoned. She wore a pair of beige slacks and walking shoes but he could see that she had a small waist and feminine hips from where her shirt was tucked into her trousers. A few moments later she was standing before him, her cheeks pink and her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure, and he was lost for words.
‘You’re home,’ she said, taking the reins in one hand and looking up at him happily. ‘I prayed that God would spare you.’
JP remembered his manners and dismounted. She extended her hand and he took it, but it seemed woefully inadequate after the long letters they had written to each other so he leaned down and kissed her warm cheek. He wasn’t sure whether her glow was due to a blush or the sunshine.
‘And you’ve grown up,’ he said, trying hard to take her all in with subtlety.
‘Six years is a long time,’ she replied. ‘I would say that you’ve grown up too.’
‘I don’t suppose you get lost in the hills any more.’
She laughed and he found himself chuckling along with her for her laugh bubbled infectiously. ‘I know these hills better than the sheep,’ she said. ‘I know every rise and fall and every bush and tree. I doubt I’d lose myself even in a thick fog.’
‘Well, I’m going to have to get to know it all over again now,’ he said. ‘I’ve been away far too long.’
‘Then I shall be the one to rescue you. Come, let me show you something.’ She grinned and set off the way she had come. Piglet remained watching her in bewilderment. ‘She’s had enough now and wants to go home,’ she told JP, turning round and putting her hands on her hips in mock exasperation. ‘Come on, Piglet, you can have another sniff at that old badger set.’ The dog gave a little grunt as if deciding that the badger set was a more exciting option than the hearth rug and trotted after them. JP walked beside her, leading his horse by the reins.
‘Thank you for your letters,’ he said. ‘They got me through some of the darkest times.’
‘I’m glad. I hoped they would. I thought you might be lonely up there in the sky.’
‘I was, but you were always with me.’ He wished now that he had read her letters more carefully and taken more trouble with his. He might not have been so ready to expose his fears and failures had he known what a lovely creature she had become.
‘I enjoyed yours too,’ she said. ‘I imagine you must have had loads of adventures. Now you’re no longer being censored you can tell me all about them. I bet you were very brave, JP.’
‘I was because I had to be. There was no other option.’
‘Of course there was. There was cowardice. But you chose to be brave.’
They followed a path that ran along the cliff top and JP was obliged to walk behind her for the track was too narrow for them to walk side by side. They continued to talk and fell into an easy conversation as if they had known each other for years. JP realized that their letters had lifted their friendship onto a more intimate level, for they had shared so much in them. He had confided in Alana and, without intending to, he had made her his confidante.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked after a while.
‘Not far now and you won’t regret it. The path widens in a moment. We’re near the badger set so we might lose Piglet.’ The little dog hurried on ahead, picking up the enticing scent of badger.
As they talked JP admired the confident way Alana spoke. She wasn’t afraid to voice her opinions nor did she feel the need to soften her tone when she disagreed with him. For a girl not yet seventeen she was formidable. And every time he made her laugh he felt he had won something special.
At last she stopped. She told him to tether his horse to a tree and then whistled for her dog. When Piglet reluctantly extricated herself from the badger set Alana scooped her into her arms. She lowered her voice. ‘Follow me.’
They walked into a small coppice of hazel trees where the ground was soft with moss and last autumn’s decomposing leaves. Fresh ferns and bracken unfurled their green tentacles in the shafts of sunshine that beamed through the branches and primroses grew in clusters among the burgeoning bluebells. Alana sat down and placed Piglet on her lap. ‘You be quiet now,’ she whispered.
JP sat beside her, his curiosity mounting. ‘What are we looking at?’
‘Over there, you see that hole.’
The hole was visible on account of the loose earth at its mouth. JP recognized it instantly. ‘A fox’s den,’ he said.
‘She’s had pups,’ Alana told him. JP thought of the Ballinakelly Foxhounds but didn’t enlighten her on the hundreds of foxes he’d hunted and killed.
‘You’ve seen them?’
‘Yes, she’s got six and they’re adorable. They come out and play around this time.’
‘You think they’ll come out with Piglet sitting here waiting for them?’
‘They don’t mind Piglet. It’s the hounds they mind.’
She grinned at him knowingly. ‘I’m not naïve, JP. I’m well aware that you hunt foxes and that they steal lambs and chickens and drive the farmers mad. But these are pups and while they’re pups they’re not doing any harm to anyone.’
‘So, we just sit and wait until they decide to come out and entertain us?’
‘Are you in a hurry to get back?’ she asked and there was a mocking glint in her eyes.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Then they can take all the time they like because I’ve got nothing to hurry home for. Just helping Mam with the tea and I’d rather be here with you.’ She gazed at him steadily and he was disarmed by her forwardness.
‘And I’d rather be here with you,’ he said and grinned.
They sat and waited and neither wanted the foxes to come out until dark.
Chapter 22
It was dark and raining heavily when Michael Doyle knocked on Father Quinn’s door. There was a cold and ragged edge to the wind as it whipped around the walls of the priest’s house, which stood in isolation behind the ancient church of All Saints. Michael waited, shoulders hunched against the cold, cap leaking water into his hair, and wondered why the old priest wanted to see him now, at this ungodly time. He was reminded of the secret meetings that had taken place here in the dead of night during the War of Independence, when Grace and Kitty had crept in through the back door to plot and scheme and betray their class. He grinned as he thought of Grace now, pressed up against the farmhouse wall, legs wrapped around his middle, upper lip glistening with sweat, moaning with wanton pleasure. He knew what lay beneath the ladylike veneer she presented to the world. He knew how deeply ran her lust and how hot and uncontrollably it boiled. He had enjoyed her immensely. The big door opened a crack and Father Quinn’s wrinkly face peered through it, bringing Michael back to the present and to the matter at hand, which, judging by the priest’s expression, was urgent.
Michael took off his jacket and cap and followed Father Quinn into the parlour. There was a fire in the grate and a dim, cheerless light radiating weakly from a few tatty lamps placed on polished wooden tables positioned around the room. The parlour was dour and simple and lacked a woman’s touch, Michael thought, but Father Quinn was a practical man who did not have the patience or the desire for embellishment. Michael was pleased to be out of the rain. He took the armchair beside the fire where he had sat so many times before and Father Quinn took the one opposite, which was placed directly beside one of the lamps so that he could read more easily. Michael noticed the almost empty glass of whiskey and the open book on the table.
Father Quinn took off his spectacles and looked at Michael gravely. ‘I would not have invited you here at this time of the night had it not been of the greatest importance,’ he said, folding his big, coarse hands in his lap.
‘I thought as much. So what is it?’ Michael replied.
‘It’s Ethan O’Donovan. He came to see me this evening. His daughter Niamh is planning to run away with the Count.’
Michael had been expecting this and showed no surprise. ‘Did he say when?’
‘He did not. But his wife found a packed bag beneath the maid’s bed and when she questioned her the girl confessed. She told her that Niamh boasted that she is going to start a new life in America now that the war is over. I fear that the Countess has given her husband power over her riches.’ Father Quinn had known Bridie when she had been a barefooted scrap of a girl in his congregation, but since she had acquired status and a great fortune he was not only respectful of her title but protective of her money, for she gave generously to his church as well as to local charities. He was not about to see it disappear across the Atlantic with her good-for-nothing husband.
‘Does Mrs O’Donovan know that Ethan came to see you?’
‘She does not,’ said Father Quinn, knowing Michael well enough to understand where his questioning was leading.
‘Does anyone else know that he came to see you?’
‘I believe not. No one knows that you are here either, I don’t imagine.’
‘Then leave the matter with me.’
Father Quinn nodded his grey head and his rheumy, hooded eyes looked at Michael without blinking. ‘Sometimes men of God such as we are have to take justice into our own hands. In this case the Countess is your sister and you have a right to protect her. I will absolve you of any sin.’
‘I knew the sort of man the Count was the moment he arrived in Ballinakelly,’ said Michael.
‘I am afraid he is one of God’s lost sheep.’
‘But there’s no shepherd to bring him into the flock, Father Quinn. He is a man who abides by his own rules and thinks he can act with impunity because of his title and his wealth. But let me tell you that he is not what he seems.’
‘I have no doubt of it.’
‘I will not let him ruin my sister.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘I will deal with him the Irish way.’ Michael pushed himself up from the chair. ‘You must tell Ethan that you cannot do anything to help besides giving advice and support and that his daughter is in God’s hands now. What will be, will be, and it will be God’s will.’
‘I will talk to him tomorrow,’ said Father Quinn.
‘You must remain above suspicion, Father.’
Father Quinn grinned grimly. ‘I always am, Michael.’
Michael left the priest in his armchair and let himself out. It was still raining but not as hard as when he had arrived. He pulled up his collar and walked briskly to his car.
The following morning Bridie received an unexpected visitor. She was sitting on the terrace with Rosetta, for the rain had passed and the sun was shining down with the enthusiasm of summer, when the butler stepped out to announce Mrs Maddox, the Rector’s wife. Bridie raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Rosetta. What could the Rector’s wife possibly want with her? She didn’t imagine it was a social call, Catholics and Protestants did not mix, so she was curious as to what the woman’s motive might be. A moment later the elderly lady was shown through the French doors.
Ballinakelly was a small town but Bridie did not venture there much and many of the people who had come to live there in recent years were strangers to her. Mrs Maddox, the former Mrs Goodwin, was one of those. But Bridie instantly recognized her, for it was impossible to forget that sweet, gentle face and unassuming smile. However, she couldn’t remember where she had seen it, only that she had, at some time in her past, set eyes on it. ‘Mrs Maddox, please join us here in the sunshine,’ she said, playing for time while she racked her brain in search of her. ‘Have you met my sister-in-law, Mrs Doyle?’
Mrs Maddox shook Rosetta’s hand and then sat down on a garden chair made comfortable by pretty floral cushions. The butler disappeared to fetch a fresh pot of tea and another teacup. As soon as Mrs Maddox began to speak Bridie recalled the moment in the milliner’s when she had met the pretty young girl trying on hats with her companion. In fact, Bridie had been quite taken with her. Now that the girl’s companion had come to call she would ask after her.
‘What a lovely day,’ said Mrs Maddox, whose life had turned into a veritable banquet of pleasure since marrying her old love John Maddox. Her joy rendered everything beautiful. Not a moment went by when she didn’t count her blessings. Like her husband she had grown fat on happiness. The two of them resembled a jolly pair of portly partridges. But her chubbiness gave her a rosy, friendly demeanour, as well as restoring her youthful appearance, which years of silent longing had purloined, and Bridie and Rosetta were immediately charmed by her. ‘This is the first time I have seen Castle Deverill in its entirety. Of course I’ve seen the towers peeping above the tree line and Mr Maddox showed it to me from the distant hills. I have to confess that the first sight of it stole my breath.’ She put her hand on her chest and sighed. ‘Indeed, it is quite magnificent.’
‘We have met before, haven’
t we, Mrs Maddox,’ said Bridie, pleased that she had recalled the memory in time.
‘Oh yes, we have,’ said Mrs Maddox.
‘It was before the war,’ Bridie told Rosetta. ‘I was in Loretta’s looking at hats with Emer when Mrs Maddox came in with a sweet girl with an American accent.’
‘Miss Martha Wallace,’ Mrs Maddox interjected helpfully. ‘You very generously gifted her a hat.’
‘She had to have it,’ said Bridie, now remembering the moment well.
‘She was delighted. I’m sure she wears it often. The colour was so becoming on her.’
‘Did she return to America?’ Bridie asked.
‘Yes, she suffered a terrible disappointment and fled with her heart broken.’
The joy was swept from Mrs Maddox’s face, replaced by a sad, regretful expression as she thought of her beloved, disconsolate Martha.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Bridie.
‘Who broke her heart?’ Rosetta asked, for while Bridie was too polite to pry Rosetta had no such compunction.
‘Well, it’s a very sad story,’ Mrs Maddox began. She did not feel she would be betraying Martha if she were to confide in the Countess who had been so sweet to her. But just as she was about to share Martha’s sorry tale the butler reappeared with a pot of fresh tea and a cake on a silver tray. She paused as he poured the tea. All the while the three women remained silent. In that prolonged moment Mrs Maddox had time to reconsider.
‘Do go on,’ said Rosetta, once the butler had gone back inside.
‘You were about to tell us the girl’s sad story,’ said Bridie.
Mrs Maddox’s lips hovered over the fine rim of her teacup. ‘She had fallen hopelessly in love with Mr JP Deverill,’ she said, then took a sip.
The Last Secret of the Deverills Page 26
